


And Other Strangers

by likeadeuce



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the episode "Birthday," Cordelia visited a universe in which everybody she knew was a little different.  What if she had stuck around longer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Other Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: During this episode, "Birthday," Cordelia goes into a "mystical coma" caused by her visions, and meets Skip, a demon-guide who offers her an alternative life as a world-famous actress, on the condition of giving up the visions. In this alternative world/vision, she meets slightly altered versions of Gunn &amp; Wesley, and a very altered Angel. The AU portion of the episode ends with Cordelia kissing Angel, once again receiving the visions, and returning to the "real" world -- now slightly altered herself. This fic takes things up from the point of the kiss, but in this case it didn't transfer the visions. So basically, we've got an AU-AU from that point on. So. . .enjoy!
> 
> Some dialogue in this fic is taken directly from the episode "Birthday," which was scripted by Mere Smith. Those lines are in italics within the story.

1.

_There was this actress and a one-armed guy. It's a long story._ \-- Cordelia Chase, "Birthday"

It was nine o'clock on the evening of her twenty-first birthday and Cordelia Chase -- star of TV's _Cordy_, Revlon lipcolor spokesperson, and number seventeen in _People_'s "25 most intriguing" list for 2001, _that_ Cordelia Chase -- knelt in the back room of a seedy apartment in a seedier part of town, trying to ignore the shackles hanging from the ceiling, and kissing a vampire.

This was not exactly how this day was supposed to go. She was supposed to tape her show, go home, ignore the fake birthday messages from a procession of stupid men. This was her birthday resolution, to have a loser-free year. Tonight, she had planned to assemble an entourage, hit all the hottest hot spots, schmooze like a star and dance like a fool, get wasted – legally – and, if any of her loser-exes showed their faces, she would challenge them to a dance-off.

Yet here she was, kneeling close to Angel in this cold bleak back room, bathed by the blue neon light that shone into the window from a sign in the alley. Here she was pressing her lips to Angel's, and she couldn't have begun to say why. She had known Angel, back in Sunnydale, but they hadn't been close. And he didn't look like the Angel she remembered at all. He looked like a child, shaking and terrified, lost in the cold. So Cordelia placed her hands on his shoulders for a moment, hoping to calm the shaking, and then she leaned in and kissed him, softly and tenderly on the lips. _Kiss a frog_, she thought, _Sleeping beauty kisses the prince_. It wasn't a love-kiss, it couldn't have been, so she thought that it must be a magical one.

And then he stopped shaking and pulled back from her. "I remember everything," he said softly. "Cordelia? You're Cordelia?"

She ruffled a hand through that stupid pointy hair of his. "I don't know if I count as everything," she told him. "But I'm a start." She nodded toward Wesley and Gunn, who stood stone still. "Remember these guys?"

Angel frowned then said slowly, "Wesley?" and Cordelia could see Wesley release his breath. "Gunn," said Angel. "Hey. I'm sorry, I. . ." He shook his head. "I felt like I got confused. I didn't mean. . .Wow," he said weakly, then rested his head against Cordelia's shoulder. "I feel like I need to sleep. Maybe for a hundred years."

"All right, brooding beauty," Cordelia said softly.

"Sing me a song?" he murmured.

Nobody ever asked Cordelia to sing. But she rocked the vampire's body back against her, murmuring the words to a tune that rang sharp and fresh in her mind, although she couldn't recall where she might have heard it: _Sleep my love, and peace attend thee/ All through the night/ Guardian angels, God will send theee/All through the night_. And in a moment, Angel's head lolled back and his eyes closed and, if he could breathe, she was sure that his breath would be soft and easy, maybe for the first time in years.

"Well," she said, looking at Wesley and Gunn, "I guess we should let him rest."

*

They moved quietly out of the room. Gunn walked with confidence toward the door. Cordelia followed, but Wesley hung back. She still wasn't used to seeing him like that, with the five-o-clock shadow and disheveled hair, and especially that dingy Army coat, with one empty sleeve pinned on the left shoulder. _Kungai demon, a couple years ago_, he had said, sounding like he wanted to apologize for having an arm chewed off.

Now he divided his gaze between her and Angel. She thought about what he had said to her, just before she went Angel, the way he grabbed her arm. _Don't get too close_. Well, that was what Wesley was supposed to do. She remembered Buffy and Faith trading impressions of him: _A good slayer is a cautious slayer _. And Cordelia knew she was no slayer. The most demonic creature she had fought off in the past two years was a casting director with a schoolgirl kink -- because, hello, she didn't care if he did have Spielberg and Harvey Weinstein on his speed-dial; that was not a use God intended for a lollipop.

Cordelia knew she wasn't as strong as Buffy or Faith, but after his words of caution, Wesley had stood back and let her get to close to Angel anyway. Now he kept looking from Angel to her, from her to Angel as though he didn't exactly believe what had happened. As if some disaster had actually occurred, and if they had only listened to him it all would have been better, but now it was much much too late. Wesley was very good at that look.

So Cordelia followed Gunn into the comparative non-squalor of the outer room. "That was tight, Queen C. That was something else. I've never seen anybody handle Angel like that. You oughta do a movie, man. The girl who talks to demons. Bigger than _The Sixth Sense_. And maybe there'd be a part for a brother? I mean, this face?" Gunn pointed at himself. "I'm thinking Taye Diggs. You know him? Maybe you can give him a call."

"Taye?" Cordelia stammered, taken aback by Gunn's sudden shift into fanboy mode. "I mean, he did a guest spot on the show last year, but we're not exactly. . ." She stopped, and took a measure of his playful eyes. "You are so messing with me."

"I am," he tapped her shoulder. "Consider yourself messed. I bet you get that shit all the time."

"No," Cordelia said gravely, "Never," then broke into a smile. She liked this guy. How rare was it, anymore, to meet an honest unpretentious person who wasn't on the make? _Yes,_ she thought, _A demon hunter babysitting a crazy vampire, and he's the most normal person I've met in years._ Not exactly someone she would have expected to be buddy-buddy with Wesley, either.

And speaking of Wesley, he was still scowling. "Angel hasn't slept in some time. Maybe months. Vampires don't physically require sleep, of course, not in the same way that human beings do. But it certainly may benefit his mental health to get a good night's rest." He nodded toward Gunn. "It's my turn to stay with Angel, so perhaps you can see Miss Chase home? Cordelia, it's been. . ." He wasn't quite looking at her, and didn't seem inclined to finish the sentence, when Gunn broke in.

"Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, English?" With a nod at Cordy, he said, "See, I could've been a TV star too? I was all set to play on _Diff'rent Strokes,_ but they told me I was too tall."

"Tragic," said Wesley, and started to turn his back on them, when Gunn said, "Wes! I'll take Angel-duty tonight. I bet you and Cordy have some catching up to do."

"I'm sure she doesn't . . ." Wesley began, at the same time Cordelia said, "I wouldn't mind. . ."

"English!" Gunn reproved. "Show the girl some chivalry, or I might have to do it for you."

Cordelia glanced at Gunn, and decided that might not be such a terrible thing. Wesley must have picked up on the look she was giving his friend, because he sighed and said, "Come on, I'll take you wherever you need to go." He opened the door, as Cordelia shrugged at Gunn.

"Later, maybe?" she said.

Gunn formed his hand into a pistol and pointed it at her, then dropped his thumb-hammer. "I could get behind that."

When the door closed and she was alone with Wesley in the hall, Cordelia asked, "Are you sure it's not too much trouble? Can you --?"

"Drive?" he said. "Yes. I do have a prosthesis. It just tends to get in the way when fighting." He nodded down the hall. "I have a place right here. We ended up renting out the whole floor. In some of his fits, Angel can get quite loud, and it cuts down on questions. Some of Gunn's associates use the rooms for storage and various . . . activities, I try not to ask."

He took a key from the pocket of his old army-style jacket, turned it in the lock of the nearest door, then used his hip to push it open. Cordelia watched his movement and thought of all the things she used two arms to do, all the actions she took for granted. She thought back on the efficiency he had used to take out the demon that afternoon. He had always moved so stiffly in those perfect suits, but now his body, working at a disadvantage, hidden under a loose jacket and worn-out jeans, displayed a curious grace.

He turned to look at her with a half scowl. "What?"

"Nice place," she answered, looking around, and realized that it was, in its own small way. Neatly arranged furniture, a framed poster of the Tower Bridge on the wall, lots and lots of books. Alphabetized, no doubt. She had a feeling, that if she had ever been able to get an invitation out of him to his apartment in Sunnydale – and she had dropped some hints, but Wesley was either too proper or too clueless -- it would have looked much the same. Nicer things, probably, but the same place.

"Just let me," he said, and with an eyeroll, "Get my arm, and we can be out of here."

"I wouldn't mind staying," said Cordelia. He looked at her as though waiting for the punchline of a joke. "I'm not in a big hurry to get back."

"Yes," he said, changing course to walk toward the apartment's small kitchen. "I can see how you would be reluctant to return to your luxurious home, meteorically successful career, and legions of admirers."

Cordelia leveled her gaze at him. "Look, Wes, I'm not going to apologize for being successful. But a day like this is not exactly the kind of thing I can discuss with people whose life goal is to get past the bouncer at the Viper Room on the first try."

 

"Fine," he said, wearily. "Let's sit and talk about our feelings, why not?" Opening the refrigerator, he said, "Can I offer you. . . blood, leftover Chinese food, or five cases of Anchor Steam?" He rolled his head back. "Jesus, Gunn," he muttered. "I am taking away his key. Here, then, it's all I've got." He started to hold out a bottle, then narrowed his eyes at her, and pulled it back. "Are you even legal?"

"As of today," she answered. "Happy birthday to me."

"Oh yes," he said. "I saw that in the paper. Right next to the horoscopes and under the word jumble. Model-slash-actress Cordelia Chase turns twenty-one." He offered the bottle again, and said, "According to Gunn's cousin, this stuff fell off a truck."

"Beer fell off a truck?" Cordelia said. Wesley shrugged as well as he could, then Cordy took the bottle and said, "What the hell, I'll live dangerously."

"Not just a model-slash-actress," he said, in a deep mock-movie-trailer voice. "A model-slash-actress on the edge."

She stuck her tongue out at him. He almost managed to smile, and followed her into the small living room. She sunk onto the sofa, while he slipped out of his jacket, folded it, and took the single chair. Cordy raised her bottle and said, "To living dangerously."

"Yes," Wesley said, "About that." He drank, and then looked at her. "What you did in there, Cordelia?"

"Oh, you know," she said, downplaying the remark the way she had learned for press interviews -- _oh, I suppose the show is kind of successful_. "It was nothing."

"No, Cordelia. It was something. It was extremely, extremely – and I cannot emphasize this enough. Extremely stupid."

2.

_As much as I'm enjoying this forced death-march down memory lane_ \-- Wesley, "Birthday"

 

The words hung between them for a moment, until finally Cordelia said, "You're welcome."

"For what?" he asked.

"I must have heard you wrong, so you're welcome. Considering that I did you a big fat favor, I know that what you must have just said was some form of 'thank you.' It only just sounded like you were calling me stupid, which wouldn't make any sense. Because if I'm stupid, and I just did something you haven't managed to do in two years. . . "

Wesley slapped his hand against the chair in agitation. "Exactly what is it that you think you've done here, Cordelia?"

"I made a breakthrough in there, with Angel. Gunn said so."

"In case you didn't notice, Gunn was trying to get in your pants. And he's my closest friend, but, I'm sorry. He's hardly the expert on Angel."

"Oh, and you are?"

"Yes, as a point of bloody fact!" he snapped. "Angel has become my life's work. And you think you can just swoop in here, do your little bit of good, and flutter away. The way you make a public service announcement, or host a fundraiser, and you think you've cured cancer. For all I know, you might have made the situation worse."

"How?" she demanded.

"I don't know! But I have to go in there tomorrow – and the day after, and the day after – and I have to find out. You'll have moved on to your other good deeds by then. No need to trouble yourself."

Cordelia slammed down the beer and started to stand up. Then she thought better of it, smiled, and leaned back onto the sofa. "You're just jealous," she said.

"Jealous?" he repeated, disbelieving.

"You're jealous that you didn't think of it."

"Jealous," he mused, "that I didn't think of. . .kissing him?" His tense body relaxed, and as he slumped back into the chair, Cordelia realized that he was laughing. "No, Cordy," he said after a moment. "I think I can safely say that I do _not_ wish I had thought of that. After all," he said, taking a swig of his beer. "I would just have drooled all over his chin, and three years from now, he'd still be talking about it."

"Is that why you're so bent out of shape?" she demanded. "Me telling Gunn you were a bad kisser?"

"No," he said, his expression suddenly grim again. "What I'm sore about, is that I can imagine the headlines. _Starlet murdered by vampire cult; three held for questioning._ Angel would disintegrate during the daytime perp walk. Me, they might just deport. Your new best friend Gunn would probably get the gas chamber."

Cordy stared at him for a moment, then finally choked out, "Let? Did you just call me a star- LET?"

"Oh, I forgot," he said, "You're TV's _Cordy_."

"That's right, buddy."

"Yes, well. . ." A smile teased at his lips.

"What?"

"It's not exactly _Prime Suspect_, is it?"

"Prime what?"

"Exactly," he smirked.

"Gunn told me you tape it."

Wesley's dropped his head into his hands. It took Cordelia a moment to realize that he was actually trying to form words and couldn't. Finally, he managed, "I may have overestimated the 'not wanting him to go to the gas chamber' part of our friendship." Then he looked up slowly and said, "When did Gunn have a chance to tell you that?" He saw her smile, then lowered his face again and said, "Fuck."

"Before I got _Cordy_? I read for a lot of cop shows." She laughed with genuine delight. "I just tricked you into a confession, buddy."

"Brilliant." Wiping his brow, he finally looked up, and sounded almost plaintive. "What did you think? You're the only TV star I ever met, much less snogged."

"I don't know what kind of enchanted revisionist memory spell you're dealing with, but that never happened. Unless," she stopped as that special knot of only-in-Sunnydale dread crept into her stomach, "I'm the one who's had my memory wiped."

Wesley pointed at his mouth. "Snog means, lips. Shameful as it might have been, even you owned up to that."

"Oh," she said, then after a moment's pause, she said, feeling ridiculously shy. "Do you like it?"

His brow furrowed. "Snogging? I think. . ."

"The show," she said. "Do you like the show?"

"I. . .I. . ." he stammered for a moment. Then frowned. "Does it matter?"

"It's what I do," she said softly. "It's my life, and I guess it is dumb, but. . . I mean, you're smart, and we were always – kind of friends. I'd hate for you to think what I do is no good at all."

"No, I don't think. . . obviously, it's not the Royal Shakespeare Company, but you are, well. . .there are times when it's very funny. Like well, last week, when your roommate's cousin was visiting from Greece . . . and they found you kissing him and. . ."

"Wesley," she stood and walked toward his chair, "Do you know why I kissed him?"

"I don't remember for sure. Were you trying to make the roommate jealous?"

"Angel. The reason I kissed Angel, today." He shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on her. "I mean, I don't exactly know myself." She turned and walked back toward the kitchen, and he rose to follow her. "I'm not exactly sure of anything that's happened today. It's like I'm walking around in a trance." Looking up hopefully, she said, "Weren't we going to check the books on that?"

"I might be able to."

"Kissing Angel, though, getting close to him, that was a choice. I wasn't exactly sure why I made it, but I'm starting to understand." She stopped, so that he almost bumped into her. "It was because you were there. Telling me not to."

"Oh wonderful," he said. "I see my authority is as effective as ever. But I'm quite sure that I never told you not to kiss him. Just like I never told you not to saw off your left foot and take it down to the Santa Monica Pier to fish for sea turtles. Because it simply never occurred to me that you would consider such a thing."

"And just like that, Sarcastic Man is back." Getting up in Wesley's face, which was not too hard in the four inch heels, she said, "I was afraid we'd lost him, what with you being almost sweet for five whole seconds there."

"Is it possible Sarcastic Man should die while he hath such meet food to feed him as Cordelia?"*

That was some kind of quotation, she thought, something she had to learn once for an audition. There was a play with a "Cordelia" in it, though she was pretty sure it wasn't that one. But she wouldn't let him distract her with all that British stuff. "Don't get too close," she said.

"All right," he backed away, shaking his head. "Whatever."

"No, not you," she said, and Wesley made up some of the distance between them. "That's what you said to me. You kept telling me not to get too close to him."

"Which, when dealing with delusional vampires, is generally sound advice."

"But not always. Look at today. You may not want to admit it, but I helped. And if you'd had your way, I wouldn't have gotten the chance." She paused. "I was just thinking about our little dinnerdate in Sunnydale. Do you remember?"

"I remember you practically kidnapping me to help with your English homework at a nice restaurant. And the Council refusing to let me expense it, because 'we don't run a dating service, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.'" To her glare he said, almost meekly. "Yes, of course I remember. It was quite pleasant."

"The first thing we talked about, was how we were both only children. And you told me this story about the house where you grew up. The Border Groves, or whatever it was called. You described this English country home to me, in obscene detail. And I, shallow spoiled teenage princess that I was, I kept trying to get off on the _House Beautiful_ porn. But what I kept coming back to was this vision of you, growing up in this enormous, empty house, full of beautiful things. And scared to death to touch any of them, because you just might break something. That's still you, Wesley."

"So you've got me, then? You have this profound insight into my psychology, based on what? A fantasy you concocted, three years ago, around a story I told when I was trying to impress a girl? It's all about that, and not, I don't know, getting my arm chewed off by a demon?"

"No," she said. "That came after. You were scared to touch anything a long time before that happened."

"And my left shoulder socket would like to suggest that I wasn't wrong." He narrowed his eyes. "You claim to know so much about me, Cordelia. Do you think I haven't picked up any ideas about you? Let's flash for a moment from my cold austere emotionally-scarring English boyhood – entirely hypothetical of course – to the home of the cutest little rich girl in Sunnydale. A home full of sunshine, blessed by warm ocean breezes, and the nursery, packed from floor to ceiling with soft, cuddly things that Daddy bought just for you."

"You do remember Sunnydale, don't you? With all the impaling and the things trying to eat me?"

"I'm not talking about Sunnydale. I'm talking about the four walls of the Chase home. The place where you could do no wrong, and you didn't care what you broke, because everybody would pat your head, and tell you it was all right, and buy you fifteen more. You had the prettiest pony, and the darlingest dollhouses, and you probably had a yappy little dog that followed you everywhere and worshipped the ground you walked on. And when it died, your parents wisked away the evidence of mortality and bought you another exactly like it. So no wonder, when you went out in the world, you thought it revolved around you and you never believed, never really believed, that anything out there could hurt you."

"I got impaled!"

"And missed a week of school. Break my heart."

"Let me get this straight. My parents actually liked me, and I never had any limbs devoured by ravenous beasts. So, I had it too easy, and that's what you hate about me."

"Hate?" He repeated. "You think I hate -- No, it's exactly the opposite. It's what I . . ." He was so close, his breath almost in her face, and then he turned abruptly, and moved away from her. "It's one of your more endearing qualities. And it will continue to be endearing, right up until the moment that it gets you killed."

"That's how everything ends for you, isn't it?" Imitating his accent, she said, "Until it gets you killed."

"Tends to be how it ends for everybody. Us with the bad luck to be human."

"Fine," she said. "We're gonna die. We're all gonna die someday. You can't go through life refusing to touch anything because this might be the time you get burned."

"Really?" He tilted his head and looked at her curiously.

Cordelia had sort of lost track of exactly what it was they were talking about. The discussion was becoming a little abstract, but she felt like she was making a point, and Wesley seemed to be interested in it. "Absolutely," she said. "You have to try."

"All right then. Here's something I should have tried a long time ago." He placed a hand on her shoulder, and moved quickly to pin her against the wall with his body. His fingers rose to her chin and tilted her mouth upward, and drew her into a long, deep kiss. _Oh damn,_ she thought. _I guess I should have seen that coming._

 

3.

Cordelia pulled out of the kiss immediately. At least, in her brain she did. Her brain was saying, _That was not what I meant at all, and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce has a helluva nerve, and. . .umm, wow, well, this is interesting_. And suddenly her brain was in tune with her mouth, feeling the warmth of his lips, his insistent tongue. He had definitely learned something since Sunnydale and she tasted the beer in his breath and had he maybe been smoking? Then, hello, his hand was on the button of her slacks, and his thumb moved and she felt the zipper give. His mouth pushed against hers again, until it pressed her head back against the kitchen wall and, okay, things were getting a little out of control.

She put a hand at the base of his throat and pushed against him to give her some room. Turning her face to the side, she gasped for breath before she could say, "Cool it, up-against-the-wall boy." Turning to face him full-on, she said, "That's not what I was talking about."

Cordelia thought she knew Wesley, and she expected to find an apology in his eyes. _So sorry, I don't know what came over me. I was just overwhelmed by the long day, the close quarters, your beauty. . ._ "Bullshit, Cordelia," he said. Not an apology to be seen. More of a dare. He leaned in toward her, and his lips brushed her earlobe. "_This_. . ." He shifted his body against her, bending his knees and then rising, so that he rubbed against the bare skin where he had started to undo her waist. "This is the only thing we've been talking about." He let out a heavy breath and repeated, "I should have tried this years ago."

"Newsflash, amnesiac," she said, "You did. We did." He pressed his lips to hers again, and she met his kiss and what exactly had happened to the part of her brain that was supposed to stop things like this? Loser-free year, hello? "You didn't try this hard," she admitted, then, feeling him push against her belly, winced at the obvious pun.

Wesley let out a sharp laugh. "You might be surprised, Cordelia, at how hard you could make me, even then. But it doesn't matter. I was a silly little boy, with a silly schoolboy crush. . ."

"Hey!" she objected, "Not that silly."

"A schoolboy crush on a pretty girl. But I'm not a schoolboy anymore, Cordelia. And you're not a pretty girl."

"I'm not?"

"You," he said, "Are an absolutely glorious woman."

And just then, the part of Cordelia Chase's brain that was supposed to stop this from happening gave up the ghost.

*  
There was a lot to be said for being taken against a wall by a scruffy demon hunter who had just called you a glorious woman. But Cordy had a feeling there would be enough to regret in the morning without having her back thrown out and all of the skin scraped off her ass. "Bed," she gasped, as Wesley's fingers slipped under her waistband.  
He made some incoherent moan-groan-mumble-hmmm? -sound, and she said, "You do have one, right, because . . ." – but then his cold fingertip slipped into wetness. Her body tightened, then shivered at the touch.

At once, his hand slipped away. Cordelia gasped a protest, and Wesley gave what she would almost describe as a smirk. "Everything in time." Nodding to a corridor behind them he said. "Forgive me for not carrying you to the bedroom, but I do operate at a bit of a disadvantage."

The bed had a heavy wooden frame, and in the weird blue lighting that came from the building's sign, it could as easily have been a family heirloom or something one of Gunn's sketchy relatives had picked up from a street corner. She started to sit down on the mattress, but Wesley put a hand on her shoulder. "Everything in time," he repeated. Then he lifted one of her hands and guided it toward the rail at the foot of the bed.

She looked down at the bedframe, just the right height to for a man to bend a girl over and. . .oh, he had to be kidding. Melodrama much? Would men ever stop watching too many pornos, and figure out that you could have perfectly good sex in a nice soft bed?

Wesley caught her look, and abruptly he let go of her and stepped away. "You can leave any time you want. Of course," he added, tilting his head as if seeing her slightly askew would tell him something, "I don't think you want." Cordelia had heard a lot of lines from a lot of men, and she knew that it wasn't the line that mattered. It was the man who could sell it. And sometime between Sunnydale and here, Wesley had turned into a man would could sell a stupid line.

"I'm staying." She reached out to touch his chest. "And let's get you out of this fugly shirt, because honestly, it's a little bit rank."

"I've got it," he said, a little sharply, and took a step back. But then his tone softened, as he brushed her neck and shoulder with the back of his hand, "You've enough to do getting out of your own clothing. A man never has enough hands for these situations in the best of times. Hmm?" He raised an eyebrow. "Go on, then," he prompted, and she turned back toward the bed.

So he didn't want her to help him undress, didn't want anything that could have said "nursemaid" instead of "lover." Cordelia wasn't sure he would even want her to see him undressing, so she heard him behind her, taking something from a drawer. She kept her back to him while she pushed the tight slacks and the thong down her thighs in one motion. He made a noise of approval at something – her tattoo maybe, or just her ass; she spent too much time and money on yoga gurus and private dietary consultants and miracle skin creams to have any false modesty about that feature. Well, she would make sure he got a good look at it.

Bending over, she raised one foot, then the other, to take off her shoes, then tugged the pants around her ankles and, in defiance of the neat order of his room, shoved all of these under the bed, between two shoeboxes – full of Watcher's diaries or some other British junk, no doubt – and, hello Wes! A woman's high-heeled shoe. Either this was some demon artifact that just looked like a shoe, Wesley had a secret life as a drag queen, or some previous female knew how to mark her territory. Smooth. And with the newest Boracchi, no less. She looked into her soul and discovered that she didn't care. _Cordelia Chase,_ she thought, _you are officially a whore_. But it wasn't that, exactly. The whole day had the quality of a dream. And no one could blame you for what you did in a dream.

So she stood, and Wesley stepped behind her. He pulled her torso toward him, so that she could feel the warmth of his bare chest through her blouse, against her back. The button of his jeans burned cold against her ass, "Take the top off, too," he whispered in her ear. The knuckles of his closed fist ran over her belly, and the inside of his arm cradled her breasts. "Can't neglect these. These really deserve a session of their own. These are the best arguments ever advanced for why a man needs two hands." And so she pulled the shirt over her head, and undid the bra, as Wesley's hand traveled downward, over her wax-smoothed skin. Two long fingers stopped at her clit, gave a teasing caress, then slipped over, and inside. He spread them and rubbed something wet and warm into her. _Nice introduction of lube by the one-armed man._

"Slick," she gasped out.

"I try," he said, and what followed sounded like a real laugh. She tilted her head to try and see his eyes. He kissed her hair, and she lay back into his shoulder. His fingers kept moving, no longer just making her pliant or paving the way for something else. This was exploration for its own sake, and Cordelia gasped to let him know when he had hit a target. His hand was confident, with long skilled fingers. Maybe this was some kind of overcompensation for losing the other hand, like a blind man's hearing growing stronger, or if it was just some lingering dexterity from childhood, endless hours of practicing the piano.

The top of his palm teased her clit, while his fingertips found the spot inside her that felt knotted, tight like tangled string waiting for the touch that would untie it. "There! There!" And he lingered, moving in lazy circles. Her thighs tensed, and she knew she could come right then, but she wanted this to last. "Everything in time," she murmured, and covered his knuckles with her palm, pulling him partly out of her. Then he pushed against her, from behind. She felt metal and realized that he was still in his jeans. "God," she said, "don't you want to. . .?"

"Yes," he groaned.

She tapped his wrist. "Stay there, I've got it." With both hands, she reached behind her back, and undid the button. She slid one hand under the elastic of his boxer shorts (thank God; she so could not deal with briefs), and found where his hard cock strained against the tight pants. "Doesn't this hurt?"

"Yes," he sighed. So she took hold of his zipper and yanked it down in one quick motion. "Jesus!" He half-jumped back, dropping his hand from her as he moved.

"Hey!" Cordelia gasped. "You just took my favorite new toy."

"_I_ took? You almost. . ." Wesley's hand dropped to shield his crotch. "Don't do that without looking! Do the concepts of 'metal' and 'flesh' and 'not mixing' mean anything to you? You're lucky I didn't lose my . . .composure."

"_I'm_ lucky?" she said.

"Yes," he said dryly. "Good point. Fortunately, near-castration is apparently a turn-on of mine because. . ." They were facing each other now, for the first time since they had come into the bedroom, and his eyes traveled down her. "Good God," he said, "Do I ever want to fuck you." And her eyes for the first time were seeing his left shoulder, which protruded from his body at an odd angle, then simply ended. He scowled. "And don't look at me like that."

"Calm down, Wesley. Breathe." She put a hand on the bedpost, swung around it, and eased her body back into the mattress. "Just breathe, and come to bed."

*

He knew what he was doing, and Cordelia was surprised. Not particularly because he was Wesley. Well, that was part of it; even as a smitten teenager, she had admired him as though he were a picture she could frame, not a body she could fuck. On only a few occasions had her adolescent fantasies moved beyond the idea of what a gorgeous couple they would make, the things he could buy her, and speculation that, back in the old country, the Wyndam-Pryces might actually be landed gentry – whatever the hell that meant. Those few times, she had sort of assumed that she, then eighteen and – purely in the technical sense, of course – a virgin, would have to take the lead. She read _Cosmo_ and she had seen every episode of _Sex and the City_ at least twice. She'd seen movies with people who looked and talked like Wesley, and they hardly ever had sex; except for James Bond, and, after the dazzle of Wesley's Savile Row suits wore off, she had to admit that he was really really not James Bond.

But her surprise now had very little to do with Wesley. It was just that, from three years of post-high school experience, she had discovered that the world was not exactly busting out with men who knew how to show a girl a good time. Oh, they could be taught, assuming they were willing to pay attention. But any guy who got through the door with Cordelia Chase seemed to think this made him such hot stuff that he didn't have to care what she thought. Like he just couldn't wait to get done banging her so he could get on the phone and tell his friends. Or try to take pictures, "So you can sell them on e-bay, you big freak?" Like hell. If there were naked pictures of her out there someday, it was gonna be because Hugh Hefner wrote her a big fat check, not because Gregory Dunne the pencildick knew how use Ofoto.

So lately, she hadn't slept with much of anybody. She sure as hell hadn't slept with a man who looked at her the way Wesley did, now. Like every moment he wasn't touching her, he needed to focus on keeping his body together, so it didn't shatter into pieces. And then when he did touch her, when she lay back on his bed, and he sat beside her and skimmed his hand against the rise of her belly, he closed his eyes and gasped as though her skin burned, fire against his ice.

"This is really what you want?" he asked. A thigh rubbed her hip as he settled over her. "Thirty-one flavors, and you order vanilla."

"Wherever I go, I try the vanilla first. If the vanilla's no good, none of the other flavors are worth a damn." This actually was true about ice cream. It was something she had learned from Xander Harris, and this was a weird time to be thinking about Xander, except that she usually did, at times like these, take a moment to wonder if her life would have been different if she had slept with him, if they would have stayed together and she would still live in Sunnydale and -- if she hadn't been bitten to death -- maybe they'd be married and she had been thinking about calling Xander or Willow or even Buffy to let them know who she'd run into only now she really thought that she wouldn't and then. . .

. . .and then she stopped thinking about anything, because Wesley's vanilla was very good indeed. He pushed into her slowly, but without hesitation. His hips rocked gently against her. She felt full; her knotted muscles tightened around him – thank you, Pilates – and he gasped, "Cordelia." Which was a mouthful to say, as hard as he was working. So she stroked his back and said, "Wes," which gave him permission to answer with, "Cordy, Cordy, God, Cordy." She could see his neck muscles clench, his lips tighten, the room was still that weird blue that came in the windows, and the light drew lines across his forehead, as he rolled his head back to look at the ceiling. Cordelia reached her hands over the back of his neck and pulled him down toward her.

"Face to face," she said.

He gasped, "Why?" Still not wanting to look at her like those space monsters that think you can't see them, if they can't see you, like it would keep her from seeing the shoulder that was attached to nothing. She reached up to touch where the arm would have been. It felt odd, knobby, rough. Scars and skin grafts, but it was flesh, and under the flesh was bone and all of it was him.

"Because I like your eyes, you moron." He managed to get in a little eye roll, but obediently leaned closer to her face. "And yours. Nothing like the sun," he said, or something that sounded like it. As he moved, things shifted, below; she felt a second's jolt of pain, over before it started, but he caught it in her face, and moved, in response,

"Better?"

"Yes – no – there. Yes. There. More" God, but he knew how to take orders – umm, suggestions -- without being a crybaby about it. Somebody had trained him well. Part of her wanted to take Boracchi-girl for a drink, though not in a "sorry-I'm-fucking-your-boyfriend" way. Because Cordelia wasn't a liar, and she wasn't the least bit sorry.

But then, wait. . .he was letting up, pulling out of her. "Hey! You're not done. . "

"No," he said. "But you liked the vanilla."

"Good vanilla," she agreed, around the edges of her ragged breath.

"It's only fair I should get to pick the next flavor."

"That's really really gonna depend on the next thing that comes out of your mouth."

"Well, I've just been thinking. Everybody in the country sees you kiss the blasted dog every week, so. . ."

"You are really disgusting."

"And nobody else in America ever had that thought. Nobody was thinking that when they shot that beautiful piece of cinema."

"Oh my God," she moaned, "I really need to call my agent." Glaring at him, she said, "You are just dying to bend me over something, aren't you?"

He put a finger on her breastbone, and traced a line, slowly down to her navel. Lingering there, he said. "You won't hate it."

Cordelia sighed and rolled toward him, letting his arm wrap around her stomach. Pushing up onto her knees, she leaned forward and braced herself with her hands. "I just better have an orgasm soon, or I'm gonna get cranky."

"Ladies first," he agreed. Kneeling behind her, he slid his hand down to spread her thighs. A jolt went through her body and she thought he must have been able to feel it. But he moved his hand back to rest on her ass. "Now this, this is very nearly your most exceptional feature."

"No." She turned her head to look back at him. "Try 'glorious' again."

"Glorious."

"Still no."

"I wasn't even thinking. . . "

"You were definitely thinking," she said. "Big fat no. Not ready for that tonight."

"Tonight?"

_Oh shit,_ she thought. "Tonight-ever. Not tonight ever. It's an expression that means. . .oh Jesus God." Wesley had found away to distract her from denying that she ever wanted to see him again. And he was right. She didn't hate it. Her body was still on edge from releasing him before, and now he took her from an opposite angle, so that every inch not already aroused was in the game now. The gentle back-and-forth of their first joining gave way to this more insistent thrusting, and their breath came out in synchronized gasps.

"Wesley," she groaned. "Touch me." She didn't have to say more. His hand came forward and pressed against her clit. That was all it took, and she felt the first vibration through her body, the ocean wave of sensation, the sense of falling that always reminded her of a moment on the Ferris Wheel at the Sunnydale Spring Carnival, when she was eight years old and the car went over the top and her stomach seemed to plummet down ahead of her body and her father put his hand on her shoulder and she hugged the soft stuffed bear against her chest and even though the bottom had fallen out of the world, she knew that everything would be all right, that nothing would ever really hurt her.

 

4.

 

Cordelia lay back in Wesley's bed, closed her eyes, and folded her hands down over her stomach, waiting for her breathing to slow. She felt him settle beside her on the left, his right arm, his only arm, between them. When she finally trusted herself to speak, she said, "Wow. Somebody's learned something since Sunnydale."

He gave her a cold look, and she realized it hadn't come out exactly the way she meant _Way to kill a mood, Cordy_. "I've found," he finally said, "that only a certain type of girl is lining up to go to bed with a one-armed demon hunter. And generally speaking, those girls are not content merely to be held." He rolled away to leave her looking at his back. "Which is fortunate, because it's somewhat hard to pull off."

"My," Cordelia said. "That was sweet. By which I mean, bitter and nasty."

"You're being a real princess yourself." He sat up and started to stand. "Shall I call your car service, or would a taxicab be more discreet?"

The bottom fell out of her stomach again, but this time, not in a good way. "What?!" Heat rose to her face. She couldn't believe she had fallen for that whole repressed and tortured act. And _glorious_, who the fuck said things like that? And then he turned to give her a curious look, and just when all the diva genes in her said that she should be screaming at him and throwing things, she heard herself stammer, "Don't you want me here?"

His face instantly softened, and he raised his hand to brush her cheek. "Cordelia, of course. I only -- I didn't think you would want to stay. That is, I assumed you would have other things to do. Your work and – other people."

"Here's an idea." She cupped his chin in her hand and raised it for a kiss. After a long moment, she said, "If you think I want to leave, why don't you give me a chance to say so?"

She looked at him intently, to see how he would answer, and he managed a half-smile. "There's no such thing as a rhetorical question with you, is there? Why do you think?"

"Because you're afraid I would."

"Afraid?" he said, "I laugh in the face of fear. That's my job. I'm not afraid of anything."

Her lips brushed his cheek and she said, "Liar."

"Therefore I lie with her and she with me," he murmured. "And in our faults by lies we flattered be."*

"OK, Wes?" she said. "We don't have to pretend that you're helping me with my English homework anymore. I'm not in high school, I'm a professional actress."

"And of course, an actress has no reason to be conversant with the works of the greatest dramatist in the English language."

"Oh please, that's not from a play. It's one of those sonnets.* Don't think I'm an idiot." She kissed his chin. "Just because I don't care. And I don't care, because if a man's going to say pretty words to me, I want them to be his words."

He let out a sharp laugh. "Don't be so sure of that."

"What?" she looked at him, "Do you have a poem for me?"

"That," he said, "you can pry from my cold dead lips."

"Sounds like a challenge." She started to steer him back toward the mattress, when her hand met the stub of his shoulder. He winced and looked away from her.

"Did that hurt?"

"Not especially, but I'd rather. . ."

"You'd rather what? Look at me." And he did, but it was the same way he had looked at her when she told Gunn that she knew him from way back when, a _please please don't blow my cover_ look. She wasn't having any of that. "It doesn't bother me, Wes. And I don't lie and I don't pull punches, and I don't pretend not to see things that are plainly there. Or you know, that should be, but aren't. If you being all one-armed man squicked me, I would say so."

"All right, I surrender." He lay back in the bed and guided her cheek down to rest against his chest. The hair scratched her face a little, but she liked his warmth and the rhythm of his breath. He brushed her bangs back from her eyes, and in the quiet she thought she could hear his heart beat.

The phone rang, shattering the quiet of the room. "Oh bugger," he groaned, then yelled toward the phone. "Shut up, Gunn."

"Isn't he right down the hall?" _Ring._

"Down the hall, and lazy as all hell. He wants to know if I'm back from taking you home, so we can gossip about you like a couple of old women." _Ring._

"So what would you tell him about me?"

"That you're the snooty princess we've always known you are, and you wouldn't give me the time of day." _Ring_.

"Funny." She pinched his cheek, right on the dimples. A man shouldn't be allowed to have those cheekbones, those eyes, and dimples.

"You do have a reputation to maintain." _Ring_ She pinched harder. "Owww!"

On the table beside Cordelia, an answering machine clicked and beeped. _You've reached Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. I'm not available to take this call. . ._

"It's the twenty-first century," said Cordelia. "There's this thing called voice mail."

"The machine is another back of the truck special from Gunn's. . ." _Beep_ "cousin."

Before Wesley could say more, a very female, very un-Gunnlike voice filled the room. "_Hey there, Lonelyhearts._"

Wesley sat up so quickly, he almost knocked Cordelia's head aside. "Oh, fuck," he said, "Sorry."

"_My people wanted to get in touch with your people, negotiate a little deal. . ._"

He tried to lean over Cordelia to get at the machine, at the same time she tried to sit up to get out of his way. She scooched forward so they could switch places, all the time listening to the metallically filtered voice.

". . ._I said, that's ridiculous. That never works. He's Angel's true-blue right hand – of course which other hand would you be? _"

The woman's voice sounded like money and jazz bars. Wesley had gotten a little tangled in the sheets on the way to the machine.

"_But the guys upstairs persist in trying to throw us together. So I thought we could negotiate something, tonight, at the Ritz. I've got a new negotiating outfit. . . with just a little bit of lace right under --_ " Wesley stabbed at the machine with his finger, but instead of the off button, he must have hit the intercom, because it squeaked and then she said, "_Hello, tiger, I thought that would. . .Hello?_"

"Fuck," Wesley groaned. He picked up the machine and looked like he was going to throw it against the wall, when the voice said. . .

"_So I know you're there now. Maybe I should come over and. . ._"

Wesley ripped the handset up, and said, "No!" He pressed the phone between his ear and his shoulder, and shut off the speaker. "Because I said so." Cordelia scooted to the far side of the bed, wrapped in the sheet, while he sat, feet on the floor, and bent down with the phone cupped against his ear. "Because I have things to do. . .Yes, I _could_ possibly." Pause. "Boring, innocuous things that in no way play into your schemes for world domination." Long pause. "No, I do _not_ have . . ." He turned to Cordy, who didn't bother to pretend she wasn't listening, so he gave up pretending she couldn't hear.

Locking eyes with her, he said, "You got me, I do have a woman over. . . Yes, even as we speak, I have a television star in my bed. . .No, not. . .No. . .Not her either. . . Not _him_, very funny. . .Give me some credit, what would I do with a bleach- blonde stick figure like her?" The pause was longer this time, and he turned his eyes from Cordy. There was a catch in his voice as he said. "My, yes, that is an interesting suggestion. . . . _I_ am?. . . You're quizzing me about my imaginary sex life and _I'm_ pathetic?. . . Because if that's what you wanted, you'd call somebody who gave a shit. . . ." And in the tone of bank teller saying to have a nice day, "Fuck you, too." Cordelia heard the faint sound of the dial tone come through. Then Wesley lifted the receiver from his ear and tossed it against the wall, where it smashed apart, and fell to the floor.

He turned to Cordelia and said, "I need to get a cell phone, anyway."  
At her inquiring look, he shook his head. "It's a good thing my life in no way resembles a French farce."

"So that was a work thing, then?" she said brightly, almost wishing she didn't enjoy his discomfort quite so much. "Negotiations?"

"Yes, it's . . .well, she's with an organization that has an interest in Angel, and from time to time we've shared information. . ."

"And what kind of information were you sharing when she left her shoe under your bed?"

"What?" he said, looking more alarmed than the information seemed to require. "Where?" She pointed at the foot of the bed. He tugged a blanket around his waist and knelt on the floor. Finally, he stood, holding the shoe. "Turn on the light," he nodded to the bedside lamp.

She did, and he moved close, turning the shoe over with a Watcher-ly urgency that seemed weirdly out of place. Finally, he looked up at her and frowned. "It's just a shoe."

"As opposed to. . .?"

"A listening device," he said, and chucked it onto the floor, then sat back on the bed beside Cordelia, still wrapped in the blanket as she was draped in the sheet. "Or maybe a bomb," he muttered.

"A bomb," she repeated, staring at him. "OK, buddy. You never said I was the only woman in your life, and I didn't expect you to be waiting around for me. I hear from guys who are doing that, but they tend to write their messages in crayon, wrap them around rocks, and throw them through the window of my trailer. I slept with you figuring there was a good chance you were seeing someone else. I did _not_ sign on for you to have a crazy girlfriend who was going to spy on us and then boil my pet rabbit or, I don't know. . ." She got in his face and said, "blow us up."

"No no," he said, "It's nothing like that. She's not jealous. It's just the whole – information thing. And the fact that she is – arguably – evil."

"Really?"

"No," he sighed. "Not so very arguably."

"You. . ." She backhanded him across the chest, and he gasped out a strangled, "Hey!" in protest. "You," she repeated, "are so busted."

"Why?" He looked genuinely aggrieved. "You just said you didn't expect to be the only. . ."

She waved a hand. "I don't care about that. I just can't believe I got the 'Be cautious and prudent and don't get too close' lecture from the guy who is sleeping with a woman who is clearly trying to play him, and who he describes as _evil_."

"Now wait! Things have happened, in the past, but I would hardly say that I _am_ sleeping with her."

Cordy lowered her chin and gave him a "don't try to play a player" gaze. "Well not right this minute. And not in the last two and a half hours, unless I missed something. But recently enough that for your very well-organized self not to notice that shoe."

"My relationship with this woman is complicated." He cast a guilty look at the ceiling and muttered, "Did I just say 'relationship'? I hope she's not listening or I owe her money." To Cordy's look, he said, "Not important. The point is, what's happened between us is very hard to explain."

"Let me take a shot. You have nothing in common, you want different things out of life, and every time you see each other, you fight. " Who needed a psychology degree when you'd spent half of junior year kissing Xander Harris in a janitor's closet? "Yet underneath it all, there's a mysterious, almost animal attraction. Every time, you tell yourself you won't act on it. And an hour later, you're flat on your back, you've had your brains fucked out, but you feel strangely empty. Because she takes off as soon as the deed is done, and, oh yes, because girls who sleep with men like you don't like to be held."

He looked down as she spoke and only when she was finished did he lift his eyes. "I really am that transparent, aren't I?"

"Let me just say that, in general, you men aren't as mysterious as you think you are." And then it hit her, a cosmic birthday present. Another one of the revelations that had been bursting on her without warning, over the last twenty-four hours. Cordelia looked at Wesley, and she knew. She didn't want to tease him anymore, she didn't want to leave him in the clutches of a woman who got off on making him paranoid, on making him hate himself. She didn't want to leave him at all. "Now come here." She pulled her feet back onto the bed and patted a space beside her. He slid into it, lying down next to her and looking up at her for a cue to his next move. She dropped the sheet from her breasts, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Wesley. Then she traced down the length of his arm with a finger, lay her body down against his body, wrapped his arm around her, and nestled her face into his chest.

She simply lay there for a moment, enjoying his warmth until he asked, as she knew he would, "What are you doing?"

"Being held," she answered. "By you. It turns out? It's not so bad."

5.

_Your lover is an actress; did you really think she'd stay?_ \-- Sunrise Sunset _by Bright Eyes_

Waking up with a headache in a strange bed in a strange room was not an entirely new experience for Cordelia Chase. Still, it hadn't happened for a long time, not since the first summer when she came to L.A., when she was lost and adjusting to a world that, however briefly, didn't realize she existed. Now she was alone in this room she had never seen before, nestled into an unfamiliar bed and, hello, naked and, yes, it all came back. The hotel and the vampire and Wesley and – good God, Wesley.

She stretched out her body, from her head to the tips of her toes, and let the memory of last night's sensations wash over her. She heard muffled voices from out in the apartment, and noticed that the weird blue light that had flooded the room was gone. In its place was. . ._oh shit, sunlight_. Today wasn't a filming day, but she needed to be at the studio to shoot promos by ten. She scrambled out of the bed, retrieved her own clothes, decided they were a mess. Fishing a loose T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from his dresser, she resisted the urge to snoop around. But she left the drawers a little askew. Madame Boracchi wasn't the only one who could mark her territory and besides, Wesley's well-ordered living space could use a little messing-up.

Cordelia put her ear to the door before walking out, and made out the voices as Wesley's and, yeah, that sounded like his friend Gunn. She slid into the hall quietly and tiptoed, felt a little guilty, but he knew she was an eavesdropper by now, and, hey, at least she hadn't gone through his stuff.

". . .no big deal," Wesley was saying. "These sort of odd coincidences happen and while exploring my past acquaintance with Cordelia was interesting for a brief time, we really discovered that there wasn't much to talk about. So I took her back to the studio. . ."

"Man, if I'd have known you were gonna let that opportunity go to waste."

"There was no opportunity, Gunn. Do you really think a woman like her would give you or me the time of day?"

"I don't know about you, English, but. . ." Wesley had his back to the hall, so when Cordelia walked in behind him, Gunn's eyes widened.

"What?" Wesley said, looking over his shoulder. She came from the other side and tapped his arm.

"So what's for breakfast? Blood and beer again?"

"Cordelia," he stammered. And then to Gunn, "This isn't what it looks like."

"Oh no, it is. . ." She put an arm around his waist and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Exactly what it looks like. Just like _Notting Hill_. With vampires."

He shivered a little at her embrace, pulled himself to his full height, and with just a little bit of self-satisfied smirk, said, "I suppose I would be Hugh Grant in this scenario."

Gunn leveled a disbelieving gaze at them. "So what, you were down on Hollywood Boulevard?"

Wesley's smugness quickly melted into exasperation as he said, "No, not _that_ Hugh Grant. I mean. . ."

"Hey." Gunn spread his hands. "Long time ago, I gave up trying to understand things white people do."

Cordy laughed, feeling a little ridiculous, realizing she liked the feeling. Looking up at Wes, she said, "Hate to break up the party, but I gotta get to work."

He nodded, and they reluctantly untangled from the embrace. "How's Angel?" she asked Gunn.

"Still resting."

"Do you think I could say good-bye to him?" She looked at Gunn first, then Wes, who bit his lip and let out a resigned breath. _He still isn't willing to admit I did a good thing with Angel,_ but this didn't annoy her as much as she thought it might. She sort of liked it that getting laid didn't entirely shut off his brain. However wrong that brain was.

"How about I go check on him?" Gunn said.

Wesley nodded and, although he still looked a little tense about it, he said, "Cordelia and I will be along in a moment."

As Gunn left, Cordelia turned to the refrigerator to see if it was really as barren as Wesley had said – which it was, and, gross. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gunn give Wes a thumbs up and mouth the word, "Sweet!" while Wesley mouthed. "I know," in return. She reached behind her back and play-smacked his shoulder, the one with the arm.

"I saw that," she said, and when she turned to him, his stern worried-look dissolved into an absolutely ridiculous smile.

"Cordelia," he said, and they kissed and it tasted like morning and she  
loved the firmness of his back in her hands as she pulled him close and. . .  
"I really have to go to work," she said. He sighed and let her go, following her back to the bedroom as she started to gather her things. "But you should definitely call me. Well. . ." She looked at where the phone had shattered. "Maybe I'll call you, or. . .I guess you'd still need a phone, so. . .just come by the studio. I'll get you a pass, tell them to watch out for a one-armed Pierce Brosnan lookalike." She decided that the four-inch heels would look pretty stupid with sweats, so she sat on the bed and started to get back into her own clothes. He stood there, leaning against the wall and watching her dress, hand in the pocket of his jeans. Finally she looked up, "What are you thinking?"

His smile twitched, "You really wanna know?" At her nod, he said, "She was  
the sunshine of my days, my meteors at night, the tranquility of my play, and  
the strength in my fight."

"Um," she said. "Okaaayyy."

"You said you didn't want to hear any poetry unless it was mine, so. . ."

"Yeah, that's really. . ."

"Awful. You don't have to be tactful, I didn't exactly fall for you because of your tact. And since that is an excerpt from the grand prize winner of the 1984 Watchers' Academy William the Bloody Bad Poetry Contest, the badness isn't exactly news."

"Oh, so you were trying to make it bad?" she said hopefully, thinking at the same time, _Fall for? I've been fallen for? _ .

"It wasn't the type of contest one entered voluntarily. In my defense, I was fourteen. Actually, the rest of it was much worse, a mess of faux-Celtic and classical allusions. But that's the part I remember. Do you want to know why?"

"I'm hoping it has nothing to do with me."

"Well," he said. "The first time you walked into that library in Sunnydale? All the Shakespeare I've studied, the Keats and the Yeats and the German Romantics? The only thing that came into my mind was that beastly little quatrain. And every time I've seen you since then. When I was making my very sad attempt to kiss you. And every time I saw your face on the television. Or a magazine, or the side of a bus. You make me remember what it's like to be fourteen and head over heels with no bloody idea what to do about it." She was melting, she was absolutely melting, and then he looked down and said, "If that's not too corny for you."

"Too corny?" she repeated. "Did you _see_ last month's very special Thanksgiving episode?" She rose, went to him, and put her hand around his neck. "Wesley," she said, "Wes, whatever you're feeling? I feel it too. These past twenty-four hours, I've been walking around like a trance. And I kept thinking it was a spell or demon possession or some other form of Sunnydale-special mindfuckage. But maybe it's just this. It's not like I've ever believed in soulmates. But I've had the strongest feeling that there's something here I need to find. And maybe it's you. My place is here with you. With Angel. I know it sounds bizarre. I'm not a slayer, I'm not a fighter, but I know this. I know it as sure as I'm standing here. The place that I belong is with you. I'm part of this mission, and I'm part of your life. I can help Angel. And I can help you. And I'm damned if I'm just going to walk away from that."

Wesley stood absolutely still. He must have been overcome with emotion. Because he didn't answer. And he didn't answer. In fact, he was very very quiet. And very very still.

And Cordelia remembered everything.

*

"All right, Skip," she said. "This is so very very not funny."

"_We made a deal. You gave up the visions, not to mention the certain death that goes with them, and you get to live out your dream. Call me crazy, but I thought that was a pretty fair trade._"

"Visions?" she said, "I'm not having any visions."

"Well, it's just a matter of time, isn't it? Time present, time past, all present in time future. That kind of crap.* I can see where this is going, I don't need to sit around for the rest. It's lot like _Titanic_ that way."

"You saw _Titanic_? Never mind. What the hell was all this about, anyway?"

"The Powers that Be must have been a little out of date on your fantasy life. We gave you what you thought was your dream, and then you started changing it up. So we let your new dream spin out for a while. Thought maybe you and Wesley would make another choice, take each other away from it all. That would have certain advantages. But now you've chosen."

"Seriously, Skip," she said. "I really don't think my ideal fantasy life involves. . ." Then she looked at Wesley, standing still, his eyes full of. . .what were they full of? Full of her. For the third time in two days, she had that going over the Ferris Wheel feeling, and this time she had no idea what it meant. "Wesley's not going to remember, is he?"

"I think you may be missing the certain death part of going back on the deal."

She tried to imagine the next time she would talk with Wesley - sweet, proper, occasionally a pain in the ass, and, okay, not bad to look at but in no way was she attracted to him Wesley. She thought about the next time she would have to look him in the eye, and it occurred to her that certain death had things to recommend it.

"Well, if you think so. . ." said Skip.

"No!" she answered. "No no no, I didn't mean that. Look, I'm part of this mission, Skip. And it's part of me. The visions, all of it. _And if the Powers that Be aren't complete dumbasses, they know that too._ So if a human can't harbor the visions, _find a loophole_."

_"Well," said the demon, "There may be a tiny loophole."_

*

For the second time in an hour, Cordelia woke up in an unfamiliar bed. But this time, she really did remember everything, including the demon explaining that she could keep the visions in one way: by becoming part demon herself. Her eyes opened, she sat straight up and started to feel her head. "_No horns,_" she sighed in relief. Feeling behind her, she said, "_No tail._" Then she looked up at Angel, smiling hair-gelled non-crazy (relatively speaking) Angel, and she gave a big smile. "_Whew!_" she said, "_Just checking._" She scrambled out of the bed and stretched. "_It feels *so* good to be solid again._"

She tried to look around the room, got a little dizzy, and was aware of a voice. Wesley's: "_Cordelia, what is the last thing you remember?_"

"It was the strangest most wonderful place. Well, no it kind of sucked, but. . ." She looked at Angel. "You were there." At Gunn. "And you." Then Fred, and Lorne. "Well, not so much you, and. . ." Her eyes finally had nowhere to go but Wesley. She took the slightest look at him, well-groomed and clean shaven with glasses and, yay, both arms. Then her eyes swerved away, and she closed them and, thank God or Skip or whoever, she saw a vision.

From here on out, the visions were going to be the easy part.


End file.
